On Deaths and Blessings
by Amael21
Summary: Each of the Sanzo-ikkou take a moment to reflect on their lives and companions. COMPLETE.
1. Deaths and Blessings

_**A/N**: This fic is dedicated to **sohmamomiji **(my beta reader of awesome awesomeness) and **narrizan**, because their constant encouragement has given me an idea that I might actually be able to write. Thank you so much._

The sun dies its little death on the western horizon; dies and dyes the canopy above in shades of achingly beautiful crimson, violet and gold. These colors, so familiar throughout the days of his life, resonate now with a life all their own. They belong to him alone in all the world, and he is grateful.

Promises of indestructible innocence hold him up when the rain never seems to end. An unmatched strength lies within, and no matter who has need, regardless of how often, that light remains steadfast and unsullied. Childlike wonder reminds him to see everyday miracles, and to marvel. He revels in good food, soft beds, companionable laughter and comfortable silence, taught by unapologetic enthusiasm that these things are precious. Pain cannot quell, nor blood darken the shining in those golden eyes, for which he is profoundly thankful.

When he is tempted to give up, an inexhaustible well of will is at his side to shore him up on the long road. When he flounders, he turns to sober judgment and decisive action to steady him. He is the caretaker, but he does not lead. Only with this to guide him can he continue the journey, the fight, the life. One day he knows it will lead no longer, and he will need to make his own path. He also knows that this will never truly be taken from him, just withdrawn to a distance. Violet is the color of emperors, kings, and his own soul's savior.

There walks beside him also, a tireless fount of optimistically jaded mischief. It flows over onto those around it, a tempest in a teacup, making laughter rise unexpectedly when it seems least probable. It cheats, swindles, and otherwise hoodwinks, with a self-deprecating chuckle and a flash of pure joy. It has a sharp edge, easily missed in the whirlwind it creates around itself. Nothing it ventures is ever half-hearted, and it wants to devour all it sees with a visceral delight that never fails to stun him. Crimson is the color of the blood in his veins, of the heart that beats on with purpose, of the most sincere regard and affection he has ever known.

He watches the final sliver of the sun disappear behind obliging hills, and the darkness washes in behind it. There lies on the wind a scent of something sweet, and he takes it in with wonderment, resolve, and joy. Though the last vestige of day may have disappeared, he can still see those amazing hues splashed across the clouds in the sky. He will see them for a long time to come this night, and when they have followed their creator down below the horizon, he will have memory, and he will have their new shades in the moonlight.

A strong arm drapes across his shoulders, a kiss ghosts across his cheek, a well-known voice asks, "What'cha lookin' at, babe?"

A genuine smile settles upon his lips at these blessings as he replies, 'Oh, just the sunset."

And he is grateful.


	2. Unexpected Harmonics

Tonight there is no rain to explain his melancholy. It is not the past pressing inexorably upon his shoulders now, but rather the present. He lights a cigarette, inhaling deeply as he allows his head to fall back. The rough bark of the tree he leans against presses into his scalp, but it is not painful. He exhales in a steady, practiced stream, peering out at the river before him from under lowered lashes. It is quite beautiful, with the ripples in the water tipped with silver moonlight. 

Silver, a precious metal coveted and hoarded, that can hold no candle to the metal that rides behind him through the long days of travel. His metal is stronger, softer, and far more precious. Soft enough to bend, and strong enough to not break when it does, it remains ever untarnished by its contact with the world. At the same moment that he had broken its shackles, he had forged his own. Though he would deny it, he has learned once again to have a purpose and a home because of this one bright and shining thing.

He casts his gaze about as he smokes, taking in the lush little valley, carved out by the water over untold centuries. The river's edge is a smooth slope on this side, but a wall of rock thrusts up steeply on the opposite bank. The evidence of a million years' worth of patient and relentless erosion is clearly visible down its face.

Patient, relentless devotion travels beside him now, delivering destruction with a smile. It never hurries, never hurts, simply wearing away jagged edges over time. It is as gentle and soothing as the water, as it reshapes all it touches, but he knows the truth. It is as determined and inexorable as death. It has made a better man of him, though he pretends that nothing has changed.

A startlingly loud chattering above his head tears through the serenity of the night. Two squirrels dart down the trunk of his tree, stopping in the grass to play; possibly, it is a mating ritual. He cannot help but think of an entity that would choose to play, above all else. It makes sport of all around it as it pursues pleasure at every opportunity. It works and plays equally hard, and makes no apology for doing so. It makes others laugh at its foibles and jests. Annoying and loud, brash and hedonistic, it lightens his heart in unexpected ways, though he would gladly murder anyone who said so aloud.

He looks again at the moon, which is full tonight, riding above the trees. A shadow of a smile flits across his lips before he finishes his cigarette. He crushes it out against the ground, but tucks the filter inside his robes. He does not wish to despoil the harmony here with something that does not belong.

Feeling somehow lighter now, he rises and turns back toward the inn. His footsteps are quiet in the still night; carrying him back to the people he will not admit he has grown to love.


	3. Wishes

It is a quiet, clear night in the deep green of the forest. A campfire crackles somewhere off to his left. The soft sounds of men in slumber emanate from the other bedrolls ranged around it. He likes it out here, where it feels like he can see eternity in the uncountable stars. Tonight, he watches them put on a show.

He lays on his back, hands folded comfortably behind his head, watches in wonderment as the heavens reach for the earth. One after another, stars streak flaming through the fathomless black sky. Another night he might wake one of his companions, but not this night. This night, he is selfish. Wishing stars, these are called. Once he might have made wishes, unbelieving but hopeful. Perhaps he might have wished for things he had never really known: family, friends…perhaps even love.

A loud snore tears through the silence, and he smiles to hear it. The largest annoyance possible is packed into an improbably small package, there. It is loud, whiny, and constantly ravenous for all things. It insults, goads, attempts physical violence on him, and is generally a royal pain in the ass. After all this time, its naivety remains inviolable, though to all appearance this cannot be possible. It reminds him that an example ought to be set, keeping him from losing himself completely, even when he wants to. It fills a void that was left when another ran away.

He has grown comfortable in the company of these others, whose presence in his life is so astoundingly improbable. Even a foul, prima donna temper is a type of home to him, now. This one yells, threatens, hits and shoots. Its words defend its heart, and he has grown accustomed to it, so he forgives, wholly, and without rancor. It is as bright as the sun, as cold as ice, with actions that betray its glib, mendacious words. He knows that he may place his trust there, even if it seems unwelcome.

The deep green of the forest canopy in the darkness connects him, across the clearing, to the cradle for his battered heart. It cares, comforts, chides and cajoles by turns, as needed. It is fine-tuned to the auras of all around it, and always accommodates; it is a safe harbor for his shattered soul. This fertile ground has given birth to the strongest, most selfless bond he has ever known. It does not berate or belittle, though it is a great deal wiser even now, than he will ever be. He follows it as a beacon, bound by a profound respect for its strength and integrity.

He becomes aware of a rustling just before a slim hand lifts the blanket he is under, and a warm body slips beneath it, next to his own. He automatically wraps one arm around the sleepy intruder as a head full of soft, dark hair comes to rest upon his chest. A vision of bright green framed by thick black fringes floods his mind, making him smile in the darkness.

"Make any wishes?" the dulcet voice he knows so well inquires.

"No, babe," he sighs, "Turns out, I already have everything I could wish for."

Friends who are family, a family with love, a love without limits.


	4. Trinity

Somewhere, at an inn on the long road west, he alone lies awake in the deep heart of the night. He is uncomfortably ensconced in a bedroll on the floor, but he does not mind. He has played his part in the expected arguments and bickering, but it is mostly for show. The truth is that he actually prefers these times, when they share space, and the trinity of his life meshes into one comforting whole. It is dark in the room on this new moon night, but he knows their scents intimately, and he does not need to see them.

There beside him lays a primal force wrapped in a cloud of alcohol and cheap tobacco, thin whiff of earnest sweat and, improbably, melon. It works hard, plays hard, and tries hard to make it all look easy. It obtains simple things through complex means, purely for the show of the thing. Aesthetics are a primary value in all things it does, and it has taught him that life is a grand thing, meant to be experienced to its fullest.

Down from above, there drifts the scent of clean soil after summer rain. It is deeply rooted in both itself, and its surroundings. It is the smell of the color green, fresh and alive with the promise of growth. Constantly striving, reaching for the light of the sun, it expends its energies in improvement, expansion and the infinite redefinition of understanding. It constantly instructs, moving all it knows through the filter of its consciousness, passing it all on in forms often as simple as silence. It rewards his understanding with soft smiles and gentle words full of quiet pride.

Overriding and underscoring these others, is the heady combination of leather and silk, gunpowder, smoke and incense. It is a molten heart wrapped in a will of cold stone. An enigma to others, it seems profoundly simple to him in its contradictions. Reaching enlightenment through exquisitely painful means, it will suffer none to bar it way as it seeks to live its life just as it is. Wickedly perverse and sinfully soft, it has welcomed him for no reason greater than that he asked. It is now, as it has ever been, his shelter, his disciplinarian, the star around which he revolves, the higher meaning in his uncomplicated existence.

Each is an essence unto itself, each intense and independent, but when they are close like this, it is the blending that he most loves. It calls to his mind the way individual ingredients will combine to create one dish, one aroma, though the parts are still distinguishable from the whole. Labor and knowledge, death and rebirth, joy and pain commingle in this tiny space to cradle him in the scent that means home.

He breathes deeply of this essence, and realizes that he has grown sleepy once again. He rolls onto his side and curls into a warm ball, confident that here, amongst them, he is in his proper place.

They are Body, Mind and Spirit, the trinity of his life.


End file.
